


December 2017 - March 2018 Fics

by NairobiWonders



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Joanlock - Freeform, crossover character - Freeform, small angsty moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 07:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14711624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/pseuds/NairobiWonders
Summary: More of the fics I lost on tumblr.





	1. Chapter 1

Art in the Blood

Sherlock silently observed the dark haired male who had, uninvited, crossed his threshold. Framed against the open door, the man soliloquized, rambled, and ranted while theatrically gesticulating and pacing before him. It was quite the performance.

"Holmes! Sherlock Holmes! Ha!" He took a breath and looking downwards shook his head. "A pale specter, a flawed imitation of the original." With one step his twisted angry little face was almost nose to nose with Sherlock's. "I burned the heart out of the first one ..." his eyes bulged and his face contorted, "... and my sibling's infatuation aside, I will do likewise with you." 

Sherlock gave the man a patronizing demi-smile, "I have often been told I have no heart, but you are more than welcome to try."

The man threw his hands in the air and took a step backward. A click from the stoop behind him caught his attention and he whirled around. He laughed at the sight of the small woman, baton in hand, staring him down. "What are you supposed to be, you cute little thing? his bodyguard?" He cocked his head, looking at her as if she was a precocious child. He pulled down his jacket sleeves and nonchalantly turned his attention back to Holmes. In a flash, his anger reignited and his posture returned to the aggressive. 

"That, my dear fellow, is Joan Watson," Sherlock spoke with a steady clear voice as his would-be attacker got within inches of his face. "And what you will soon feel is the sting of her wrath."

Moriarty lunged, the baton thwacked and he crumpled at Sherlock's feet. 

Joan lowered her single stick and stepped closer. "Who in heaven's name is that? And why was he so angry at you?"

"That is Jamie's little brother, Jim." He lingered on the last consonant as he more carefully studied the man's features. "Apparently homicidal insanity runs in the family."

 

\-----------


	2. Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From December 14, 2017

As a young boy, he rid himself of the need for the so-called comfort of human touch. Embraces, clasped hands, pats... soothing balm for others that for him held no medicinal properties and did nothing to assuage physical or emotional pain. 

So it was with great confusion that he found himself standing before Watson, yearning for physical contact, for her assistance in pushing back the bitter darkness that lapped at his throat and threatened to rob him of his very breath. Inches from her, his eyes large as saucers and full of fear, he could not begin to articulate his need, to inform her that even as he stood before her, he was disappearing, fading into the void. He needed anchoring. He needed the one person who knew him...

Joan was startled by his proximity, by the desperation he radiated. Before she had a chance to act, he closed his eyes and lowered his head. He couldn't ask, he could not impose on her in this manner. How did one ask for an embrace?

He inhaled, head still bent, "I ... uhm ... " He raised his eyes to hers and murmured her name like a question. 

And all at once she knew. And she reached for him. And she brought his head to her shoulder. And held him tight. 

A shaky breath released against her neck and his arms encircling her, brought whispers of comfort from her. She smoothed the short hair of his nape and reminded him they'd see this through together.


	3. Hero for Hire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December, 2017  
> Joan's secret is out.
> 
> (References for my own amusement)

He held it in two hands and offered it to her.

Joan took the bright red gift bag; the tuft of lime green tissue paper rustled. "What's this?"

"You're the detective, you tell me." Sherlock crossed his arms before him. "Open it."

"It's not Christmas yet. I haven't wrapped your..."

"It is not a Christmas, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah or any other holiday gift." He shifted uncomfortably in place. "I saw it and thought you would enjoy it. The seller insisted on adding on all the paraphernalia of the season. Surprised he didn't dip it in yogurt.... Just open it!"

"No need to get testy." Joan tutted at him. She plucked out the top crown of tissue paper and peered into bag, only to find a second layer of confetti and mylar tissue sheets hiding a flat gift, wrapped in shiny paper. She took it out and looked for the seam in the paper.

"Such an annoying man ... I told him no but he went on and on ..." he muttered on.

Joan found the seam and drew her finger through the metallic paper. She pulled the paper away and gasped. In her hand she carefully held a vintage comic book encased in its plastic sleeve - Hero for Hire #1 in mint condition - the origin and first appearance of Luke Cage. It gleamed. 

His eyes shone with almost as much happiness as hers. "You like it?"

"My god, yes, how did you know?"

"I came to the conclusion, after our Midnight Ranger adventure, that you were a closeted comic nerd. You use Oren as your cover. While he had a passing interest in graphic novels, you were the true fanatic, hmm?"

She cast her eyes down at the plastic enshrined comic, "Sherlock, I ... I ... this ..." her secret out left her flustered, she looked up and smiled at him. 

"I talked to Oren a few months ago ... "

Joan looked perplexed, "You talked to Oren?"

"Your mom was here waiting for you when she got a call from him. She thrust the phone at me and made us talk to each other ... there is no way to say no to Mary."

Joan nodded in understanding. Her mom's health was declining but she was still a powerhouse.

"We had a very enlightening talk.... When I saw this, today, well, I thought you'd like it."

"Thank you." Joan sat and examined the cover art. "Growing up, this kind of stuff was for boys, my parents thought it was not proper for a girl..." she whispered. "And since I was already trying their patience with the whole Mafia infatuation thing, I kind of kept this under wraps ... still do." She shook her head at the memory.

He knew how difficult this sort of thing was for her, so he changed the subject. Sherlock tapped at her foot with his, "Come, I'll make tea and we can unsheathe that relic and have a closer look."

Joan's eyes widened as she stood. "We'll need gloves and an immaculate surface ...." she followed him downstairs detailing the procedure for viewing the issue.


	4. What happens in the brownstone, stays in the brownstone

"What happened to you?" 

Sherlock side-eyed the Captain and hobbled on past him to the nearest chair. He hooked his cane on the chair's armrest, folded his hands before him and said nothing. 

Gregson turned to Joan for an explanation. 

"It's my fault." Joan placed her hands at her hips and looked at her handiwork. The blue and green around his eye really stood out under the fluorescent lights.

Marcus walked over. "You did that?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and winced as Bell leaned forward to get a better look. 

"We were just goofing around, I got a little too rough...."

Gregson squinted, as he tried to wrap his brain around the idea that Holmes and Joan "goofed around" and roughly at that. He glanced over at Bell who appeared equally as confused.

"It wasn't your fault, Watson. I should have been more aware of my surroundings but was rather distracted at the time ...."

"We both were." They locked eyes and nodded solemnly at each other. Joan turned back to Gregson, "He fell over the ottoman, backwards, landed awkwardly and hurt his foot. I tumbled over on top of him and hit him in the eye as I tried to break my fall."

Sherlock caught the hint of disbelief on the detectives' faces, "It was not so much goofing around as it was training, self defense ... Watson is quite small and needs to be prepared to defend herself ..."

"By the looks of it, I think she'd do alright ..." Bell smirked. 

*****  
(The previous night)

"Don't think I won't tackle you..." Bent slightly at the waist and swaying right and left with arms stretched out, Joan tried to sound menacing but the smile on her face ruined the effect.

Sherlock baited her with the universal remote control, dangling it enticingly before her. "I am literally shaking in my socks...." He grimaced, mocking her, trying unsuccessfully to keep his face from mirroring hers. She moved towards him, he stepped back, "Come on Watson ... do your worst!"

Joan lunged, he grabbed her by the waist and held the remote above her head. "Cheater! You said you wouldn't use your height!" On tippy toes, she stretched an arm up, fingers reaching upward as high as they could go.

"All's fair in love and war." He took the opportunity to playfully bite at and then kiss her elongated neck. Joan fell in against him giggling, her fingers traced down his arm and then viciously tickled him.

"No, no, no - no tickling!" Sherlock gyrated, doubled over with almost silent laughter.

Joan grabbed the remote, "Ha! Got it!" 

Quickly catching his breath, he stood and moved to take it back. She stopped him by throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him .... which threw him off balance, which sent him backwards against the ottoman, which caused him to fall, which threw Joan off balance and she tumbled after him. In an effort not to hurt her, Sherlock twisted his body and his foot but the mid-air maneuvers changed her trajectory and the side of her head crashed into his face, hitting his eye. The remote skittered across the hard wood floor.


	5. I'm going to hug you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December 23, 2017
> 
> Written before, and in a small way predicting, Sherlock's reaction to being hugged by Watson - I just took it a bit further. Still hoping for a mutual hug this season ... but then I've been hoping for the past five years.

He comes out of his bedroom dressed as if he's going somewhere. 

Joan stops in mid-pour, the coffee pot steady in her hand. "You're up. I was going to bring in breakfast to you." She points to the tray with her elbow. 

"No need." He doesn't like her having to wait on him. Makes him uncomfortable. 

She looks disappointed. "You bring me breakfast all the time," she finishes the pour and sets down the cup and the pot. "I was kind of looking forward to it." This was his first morning home after a lengthier than expected hospital stay. "Anyway, you shouldn't be up."

"Poppycock," he rocks on his heels. "We both know I'll heal faster if I keep active." He raises an eyebrow at her trying to look authoritative and all Joan can think about is how happy she is to have him back home. 

She takes a step closer to him, and warns him, "I'm going to hug you."

He stiffens ready to protest but catches the look in her eye. She needs this. He turns his head slightly and pulls his arms away from his body. "If you must ..." he closes his eyes. 

Joan's stomach sinks, and she turns back to the counter, needlessly rearranging cutlery.

Sherlock opens his eyes and surveys her rejected form. With two steps he is behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder and pivoting her round to face him. "I'm going ... to hug you." The words are no sooner out of his mouth than his arms are encircling her. She sinks into his chest and he realizes he needs this as much or more so than does she.


	6. The Dating Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a prompt

Marcus flipped through the file, stopping on a copy of a newspaper clipping, "This guy was on The Dating Game ten times and was never chosen." He chuckled and looked up at Joan and Sherlock, "Maybe that's what sent him off on a life of white collar crime."

Joan smirked and Sherlock looked at him confused. "A game of dates?"

Marcus attempted to enlighten him, "You know, The Dating Game, three guys sat behind a wall and tried to charm a girl who asked goofy questions of them and she'd choose one without seeing them and then they'd go out on a date... sometimes it was three girls and ...." He saw that this was a waste of time. "Never mind..."

Sherlock continued to peruse his stack of documents, "The rituals the human species attaches to the simple act of procreation never fails to amaze me. Courtship and marriage, vows of never-ending monogamous fidelity ....Human beings are not meant to be in any kind of long term relationship - it simply is not possible and yet all these romantic notions, these games to woo ..." He shook his head and continued working.

Marcus knew better than to argue with Holmes. He stood but couldn't quite let it go. "Yeah, right ... remind me again, how long have you and Joan been together?" 

Sherlock looked up at him, flustered, unsure of exactly what the good detective was trying to say or how much he knew. His mouth opened but he said nothing. Joan kept her eyes down and kept working. 

"Thought so ..." A huge grin spread across Marcus' face as he grabbed his cup and victoriously sauntered off in search of coffee.


	7. In the details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Valentines Day and partnership anniversary fic.

Joan shuffled across the kitchen's threshold, her flannel pajamas hanging comfortably big on her frame. 

"It's Valentine's Day," he called out angrily without bothering to turn and look at her. 

Still drowsy, she took a beat to try to process his statement and tone. "Yeah, so?" She crossed to the counter where he was mercilessly beating eggs into submission.

"So?" He paused and the eggs sighed in relief. "So, the bodega foolishly chose to cater to the feeble-minded populace celebrating the non-existent's saint's arbitrarily-set feast day by selling flowers at, and I quote, 'rock bottom low' prices. The store was overrun by skinflint would-be lotharios."

While Sherlock talked she poured her coffee and paused before taking her first sip, "And your point is?"

He returned to his fervent egg whipping, "My point is, I could not get in the store to purchase baking soda and didn't have enough time to go elsewhere." Sherlock looked at her as if that explained everything. 

"I see." She didn't but really wanted that first sip of coffee. 

"My experiment was ruined. I tossed the whole thing out and will have to start from scratch."

"Which experiment?" She moved to set the table in hopes it would prod him to move faster on the eggs. 

"You remember, the rat feces ...."

"Uh, yeah," she cut him off before he went into detail. Joan picked up her coffee again. She should have stayed in bed. Sip.... She hoped he'd remembered to wash his hands.... Sip. His hygiene habits were generally good but ...

"Watson! Watson, are you even listening to me?"

She jumped almost spilling her coffee. "Yes, rat feces... a shame."

He harrumphed and poured the eggs into the hot pan. 

Joan watched him sulkily push the eggs around the pan. She cleared her throat, "I was thinking maybe tonight we could go out to dinner ...." He didn't react. "It is the anniversary of our partnership ..." 

His body language softened. "I suppose we could."

"After dinner we can search the alleys for rat droppings if you'd like ..."

He side-eyed her and swallowed a smile.


	8. Why are you touching me

Watson sits in the glow of the library's fire, pretending to read. 

On most days he sees his partner as a warrior, a woman of unmeasurable depth, of strength and compassion, someone the world could lean on for support, but then there are also days like this, when she is just a small, fallible human, lost within herself. Her mother's illness has taken its toll on her reserves.

He sits next to her. Without a word, she acknowledges his presence with a glance. No false smile - those are reserved for others who haven't catalogued the variations and nuances of her facial expressions. She returns to staring blankly at the magazine on her lap. While Vogue does deserve blank stares, this level of disinterest is not the norm for her. 

Action is called for he decides. Her hand lays beside her. In one swift motion, lest he have time to back out, he places his hand over hers. Her fingers are ice cold. 

She appears more confused than upset. "Why are you touching me?" 

"I'm not allowed to touch you?" He covers his racing heart with polite indignation. 

"Of course you are. But why are touching me now?"

"Because... " and that is all he has. 

"Because?" Her eyes challenge him but her fingers arrange themselves around his hand. 

"Yup." Terseness will have to suffice. He cannot possibly explain himself properly at the moment. 

They study each other. A staring match erupts. You blink you lose. Neither likes to lose. 

Clasped hands, warmed by gentle caresses of thumbs and fingers wait for the outcome.


	9. His kisses are like questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two small wannabe poems

Love  
I know it's difficult for you to say out loud

She   
stitches him up after digging a bullet out of him; takes care of the hand he hurt punching a serial killer; faces down and bests his "ex" - a homicidal mastermind;  
protects him from,   
stands up to and   
threatens his father to not dare hurt him  
... buys him a platypus skull to cheer him up ... 

He   
sits with her when her heart is broken,   
brings her food,   
makes her breakfast,   
tends to her bruised face,   
gives her all the cash he has to stop her being taken advantage of,   
... buys her a new spatula   
... names a bee ...

They work, live, eat and play cricket in the house together ...   
..... watch bad movies, watch good movies, watch out for each other

 

***********

 

His kisses are like questions.   
Small queries, slow and carefully delivered,   
seeking an answer, confirming the reply before rephrasing the question,   
then pausing to consider.   
Her lips ask similar questions of him.   
A moment of shared breath   
obliterates all hesitancy.   
Knowledge is shared and   
dissipates into emotion. 

The phone rings.


	10. Is that my bra?

Joan stood over him as he sat cross-legged on the floor deep into an explanation of ... whatever the hell that was. She didn't care. Clutching the mutilated remains of her favorite bra in her ever-tightening grip, Joan contemplated strangling him. Her mind ran through all the possible ways of killing him ... making it look like an accident would be the challenge, particularly if she used her own bra, or what was left of it ... but then, she liked challenges ...

".... and so you see, Watson, because of your undergarment, the amount of moisture collected was thus measurable via the ..."

He droned on, completely oblivious to the increasing levels of rage his actions had and were provoking. 

"Sherlock! Shut! Up!"

Shocked by her harshness (and more so by her lack of interest in his experiment), Sherlock wrested his eyes away from the beauty of his work to look at her. A glance at the white-knuckled grip with which she held her brassiere brought him back to her initial complaint.

"It was necessary, Watson. I had no other alternative ..."

"This is what? Like the third bra you've ruined?" She paced before him. "These things are expensive and somehow you always seem to pick my favorite ones." She stretched out the tattered remnants and mourned, "This one fit perfectly too ... like it was made for me..."

"No worries. I'll buy you another one." He smiled cheerily hoping to defuse the bomb of emotions about to explode before him. 

"You have no idea how difficult it is to find one of these that fits properly!" 

The way she forced out each word through clenched teeth and shook the bra before his face should have been sufficient for him to understand silence would be his best option. But being Sherlock, he could not remain silent. He did modulate to a more moderate, gentle manner hoping to remind her of his considerate nature. 

"I picked that one out and purchased it for you .... to replace the previous brassiere that was called into the service of science."

Joan studied the bits of elastic and cloth in her hand. Momentarily, her anger was derailed by thoughts of his ability and thoughtfulness in choosing this bra ... but only momentarily. She remembered the previous incident and it enraged her all over again. He just will not learn! He has no boundaries! 

"How would you feel if I randomly went through your underwear and took what I wanted?" Crap, she thought, that came out wrong.

"I would be honored." The happy look on his face was hard to resist and almost drew a smile from her. 

Joan quickly threw the remnants of the bra at his feet and turned before he saw her amusement and she lost the argument. "I expect a suitable replacement by tomorrow morning," she called over her shoulder. "And buy one for yourself."


	11. Waking Watson

Ow! Ow! Ow! He silently mouthed the words. His left leg was numb. He'd lost all feeling in his toes a good 15 minutes ago but he would not move. Watson slept curled up on the sofa beside him, her head resting on his lap. He had no memory of her falling asleep or of his dozing off for that matter but obviously they had. This case had driven both of them way past their physical limits. 

She huffed warm puffs of air against his trousered thigh followed by the tiniest of snorts. He smiled and craned his neck a bit to look at her. With the day's make-up gone, her freckles twinkled like tiny stars across her nose. As beautiful outside as within, he thought, and with a whisper-soft touch coaxed an errant strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. 

Watson snuggled in against his leg, her hand coming to rest near her face. Trust, love, friendship, all personified in her being and she shared all this with him. He felt deeply honored.... but he also couldn't feel his bum right now. He was going to have to move. 

Waking Watson was one of his most cherished tasks yet at the moment he did so with great reluctance. He stole one last glance and filed the image away.

"Watson!" His voice was loud and sharp.

Her head popped up and instantaneously he regretted waking her. Confused, lifting herself up an elbow, pushing her hair back, her eyes sought his.

Sherlock, hoping to hide the softer sentiments that swelled within, imperiously pointed to his leg, "You were drooling."

Joan delicately wiped at her mouth and then the small spot on his leg. She blearily looked up at him, "Sorry."

His heart couldn't take the sweetness of a her fresh from sleep. Sherlock jumped up, nearly tumbling over from the numbness of his leg and the pins and needles pain that followed the action. He grimaced and nodded, "Quite alright Watson," and hobbled off with as much dignity as he could muster leaving a bemused Joan to lower her head onto the warm spot he'd just left and return to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> My head canon is that all of BBC!Sherlock is actually the delusional ravings of Jamie's little brother, Jim, who, jealous of his sister's nemesis, creates his own version, populates a fantasy world with an over the top, exaggerated Sherlock, Watson, Lestrade, Mycroft, etc. ... and sets them on rather bizarre and stylized adventures (this would also explain why Jim never seems to really die ...)
> 
> I love Andrew Scott and would have LOVED to see him and JLM chew the scenery on Elementary.


End file.
